Five Times Miroslav and Lukas Never Met
Aug. 20th, 2010 02:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bluetears07Title: Five Times Miroslav and Lukas Never Met
Pairing: Miroslav Klose/Lukas Podolski
Summary: Part Two: Euro Cup 2008. Lukas Podolski, star Polish striker, squares off against Miroslav Klose, veteran German striker, in the first group match of the Euro Cup 2008.
Rating: Part Two: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't know them.
AN: Hope you enjoy. These get stranger and stranger as the list goes on...
They can’t help but think of it as a rematch.
Finally, a chance for Poland to redeem herself—revenge only two years later, for all of Europe to watch.
Poland and Germany wait restlessly. Standing side by side in the tunnel, they are surrounded by overexcited children with sweaty palms who fiddle with elastic waistbands, anxious trainers murmuring under their breath and silent coaches sizing one another up. Every man is going through their pre-game ritual, a cacophony of idiosyncrasy, some visualizing plays, others with prayers forming on their lips, while the rest chat with one another to calm their nerves. The referees silently begin leading them to the pitch. The dull clacking sound of boots on cement echoes just above the humming florescent lights. It’s begun. They shuffle down the corridor shoulder-to-shoulder, almost brushing against one another with every odd step.
“Eleven.”
Lukas Podolski is to his right, clad in his bright red kit, knocking into his shoulder with every other step. They slowly climb the steps, jostling a bit to make sure they keep a short distance from the player in front. Miroslav tries to ignore the younger man by concentrating on every detail of the back of Per’s head, his eyes methodically tracing the German’s hairline. He can feel Lukas’ breath against the side of his face, the scent of soap and testosterone filling his nose as they pause on the stairs.
“You sell your motherland out for what?” Lukas asks in Polish and he is suddenly inescapable. Two Polish players ahead of them glance back, but Miroslav knows all of them are listening carefully, waiting to hear his answer. The Germans are oblivious, deep inside their own heads. Miroslav turns to Lukas with his typical impassive expression set, deep-set dead eyes and a razor thin mouth. The striker’s blue eyes light up as he teases the older man, eager to elicit a response. “To wear gold and black?” He tugs at the sleeve of the German kit, pulling it away before brushing his fingers over the horizontal bars of colour. Three fingertips pause to rest against the gold, red and black spanning the width of the German national’s chest. Miroslav contains his reaction, holding the younger man’s gaze.
Just beneath the surface of glee, Miroslav easily spots the depths of rage bubbling over. The boy’s face is already flush with it, throat tinted pink beneath the collar of his Polish kit—a uniform he, himself could easily be wearing right along side Podolski. It’s then that he realizes this is something more than just a match in a long quest to the finals, it’s something far beyond a rematch against his birth country; in Lukas’ eyes this is personal revenge upon a man who turned his back against Poland. A man who, as Lukas would believe, owes his life and his service to that same nation—just like Lukas himself. The younger man leans in close, hand still pressed against Miroslav’s chest.
“You leave to get your fill of bratwurst?” Lukas crudely pantomimes with his hand and mouth, tongue pressing against his cheek before he licks his lips. A few of the other Polish players standing around Lukas snicker.
“Ignore him, Miro.” Bastian brings him back, speaking in German as he places a heavy hand on Miroslav’s shoulder. The peroxide blond throws a look at Lukas as he squeezes his teammate’s arm. “He’s just bitter about ’06.” The German players resume walking as Ballack leads them out on to the pitch.
“Yes, Klose, obey the German,” Lukas sneers; calling to him in German so the entire squad understands him clearly. Miroslav glances back down the line at his counterpart. “He knows best.” The Pole gives Bastian a small salute when the German nudges a distracted Miroslav in the shoulder, his eyes still fixed on his fellow striker.
“Podolski.” From the front of the line up, the Polish captain warns the man with a stern tone cutting through the noise filling the tunnel. It effectively silences him as they follow the Germans, stepping out onto the grass.
On the pitch Miroslav does not sing the German national anthem.
The first forty-five minutes go by in the blink of an eye. The two sides appear to be evenly matched, possession is split and both look as if they will go into halftime without any successful attempts on goal. Midfield is working hard to create opportunities for both teams but defence is on their game, nixing each pass that angles anywhere near Klose and Podolski. Thirty-eight minutes in and that all changes. Miroslav finds the back of the net with a spectacular header off a corner kick. He feels the hot gaze of Podolski burning into his back as he embraces Philipp and Bastian while Michael runs up to pounce on the group. None of them notice the wide smile fails to reach his eyes. Minutes later, at the opposite end of the pitch, a shot from Podolski goes wide and the whistle blows for halftime.
“Traitor,” Lukas spits at Miroslav’s feet as he sulks past. He briefly makes eye contact with Miroslav as he passes him before jogging off to join a group of Polish players. The look sends an electric chill running along his spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. A seed of ire begins blossoming in the pit of his stomach, surging up like quicksilver into his heart. Lukas is winning despite the one nothing lead they have over Poland; he’s dragging Miroslav down to his level, ripping him apart at the seams until he is a distorted reflection of Podolski’s own hate. Miroslav slowly counts to thirty before following the rest of his teammates to the locker room.
Immediately, the second half appears to be a wholly different game. Poland has found a spark of life that was missing before, with Lukas leading the charge. Not even five minutes in and he equalizes. His iron left foot blasts the ball past Lehmann, rocketing into the right corner of the goal. Lukas takes off like a shot, thumping the emblem on his chest and sliding through the grass before jumping up into the arms of a teammate. Miroslav shifts his weight from one foot to the other, twisting his boot into the grass and tearing up clumps of earth.
Both teams maintain the same intensity but fail to capitalize further, though several brilliant attempts are made on goal by both sides. The match nearly ends in a tie—one a piece for the two Polish-born strikers. Up until the last three minutes, it appears that the teams will have to settle for a single point entering into their next group match. At the eighty-seven minute mark, Bastian makes a beautiful pass and Miroslav is perfectly in position to send it soaring to the back of the net. Under a web of sweaty arms, Miroslav hears the sound of Lukas cursing a streak in Polish. In the final minutes of the match, Podolski is boxed out at every turn, unable to tie and salvage a single point for his home country. With two goals from a Polish-born German national, Poland looses their opening match of the European Cup.
After the final whistles are blown Lukas plays nice—no fight, no fines, no shame—a tight handshake and a stiff exchange of kits. Miroslav understand immediately what’s expected when the younger striker approaches him, tugging hesitantly at the collar of his white kit as Lukas quickly strips his own off. The cameramen circle them at centerfield as they silently pull one another’s shirts on over their heads, red replaced with white and vice versa so that seemingly nothing has changed—if only for the crests stitched into the sweaty material. Lukas runs a hand down the front of the German kit; Miroslav is leaner and it fits almost like a second skin. With a brief nod toward Podolski, Miroslav joins Arne and the two follow the rest of the team off the pitch.
Lukas lags behind, waiting until they are halfway down the tunnel, well beyond the reach of cameras and press, before he unleashes his frustration in earnest.
“Why?” A pair of shin guards smacks Miroslav between the shoulder blades. The muscles in Miroslav’s jaw jump as he clenches his teeth. He stops abruptly, turning around as other players continue past them to the locker rooms. In the harsh florescent light he can see the deep flush of Lukas Podolski’s face as the man closes the distance between them with three quick strides. “Huh, Klose, tell me.” Calmly, Miroslav grabs Lukas by the elbow, his knuckles turning white as he drags the younger man down the adjacent corridor, completely out of sight. He hears the sound of Ballack’s voice behind him warning Bastian to let the two of them have it out once and for all.
“Listen.” Miroslav begins in German, forcing Lukas to pay attention to his every word in order to understand exactly what he is saying. The older man struggles to keep an even tone in his voice as he pins Lukas against the wall, restraining him with one firm hand in the centre of his chest. “Poland never cared.” A crease appears between Lukas’ brows but Miroslav is sure he has understood. “They wanted you, not me.” He jabs Lukas with free hand, hard enough that there will be a small bruise in the middle of his sternum tomorrow morning.
Miroslav is quickly working himself up into a frenzy, descending to Lukas’ chaotic level of emotion. He’s never allowed anything like this, especially this, to issue forth directly from his very core.
It feels cathartic.
“Not until it was too late,” Miroslav tries to contain the thick twist of pain underpinning the explanation but he is sure even Lukas in his current state is attune enough to hear it bleeding through. “Germany took my parents in, as they did yours, Lukas.” He grabs the German crest that rests above Lukas’ wildly beating heart and presses the emblem hard against the younger man’s chest. Lukas grits his teeth, baring them in a grimace. He gets the message. Ungrateful boy. “They gave them everything they needed to start over, to give us a proper home.” Miroslav’s voice reaches a fevered pitch just before he cuts himself off with a deep breath. As quickly as it came, the catharsis is replaced by thick globules of guilt sliding down this throat. His hand suddenly drops from Lukas’ chest. He backs away, staring at the brightly coloured boots of his counterpart. “Germany is my home now.” Miroslav looks up at Lukas through his brows with an unreadable expression. “But I belong to neither.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Lukas lunches himself forward, nose-to-nose, and starts alternately shoving Miroslav’s shoulders, smacking right then left with wide open palms against damp fabric. He’s still trying to provoke the man but Miroslav has seemingly found his centre once more. Desperate, he begins to yell, “It’s bullshit.” He cuffs Miroslav on the side of the head.
“Podolski,” Miroslav warns as he flinches away from the striker’s hand.
“Poland is our home.” Lukas grabs Miroslav’s face between his hands, forcing him to look into his eyes. It’s that same blue, vivid with wrath and disappointment—it makes Miroslav’s stomach churn. Fingertips dig into the flesh of Miroslav’s cheeks, pulling at the corners of his thin mouth and wide eyes. Their foreheads knock together as Lukas hauls him closer.
“Stop.” Miroslav tries to twist away, bitten nails burrowing into the soft underside of Lukas’ wrists.
“It’s our home.” His voice cracks.
It's no longer about Poland.
“Stop, Lukasz.” Miroslav finally switches to Polish, successfully wrenching Lukas’ hands away from his face, crossing them at the wrist before forcing them against the man’s stomach. He walks Lukas back till he’s flat to the wall. There is brief silence as Miroslav stares at his counterpart, searching his face.
Lukas surges forward and their teeth click together as he envelopes Miroslav’s mouth in something too brutal to be called a kiss.
He jerks his head away, slamming Lukas against the cinderblock wall once more. Miroslav’s brows knit together, eyes flitting back and forth over Lukas’ face. The boy is completely open and unguarded. He was once this boy, but overlooked, with a different jaded ending. A flush high on Lukas’ cheeks makes him look years younger, so completely naïve and alone. He’s been betrayed, abandoned and he blames Miroslav for not following him home. Blames the German striker for destroying something illusive, indefinable—something that never was, never could be.
Lukas feels Miroslav’s hot breath coming in short puffs against his face and he knows the man is going to break his nose with a slick blow.
The kiss still feels like a punch.
Lukas barely suppresses the whimper of surprise. It mutates into an awkward chirp buzzing from his mouth into Miroslav’s. Long fingers rake along the length of Lukas’ face, thumb curling under his chin to drag him closer. Lips tight against each other, Miroslav tilts his head and Lukas’ lips fall open easily. He runs his tongue along the slick surface of the younger man’s teeth, greedily devouring his counterpart’s supple mouth. Lukas winds his hands into the front of the Polish kit Miroslav is now wearing—Podolski emblazoned in wide white letters hanging from Miroslav’s thin shoulders. Eagerly, he push-pulls at the fabric, till his nails finally scrape against naked hipbones. He clings to the lean muscles, thumbs rubbing along the defined crease where thigh meets hip. Arching against the man’s wiry body, he starts to feel waves of heat crash through his body. It cuts through the fatigue of his muscles, reigniting the output of epinephrine until it surges through his entire nervous system en masse.
Miroslav has already been completely undone by Lukas; pressing frantic opened mouth kisses along the man’s smooth cheek and throat. A rough groan escapes him as his hand slides against Lukas’ pouting lips, the tips of his fingers push past the soft flesh. He probes inside the depths of the wide searing, wet mouth. Lukas’ cheeks hollow as he sucks the pale fingers all the way down to the knuckle, teeth scraping against flesh while tongue curls between them.
Fumbling anxiously with the drawstring of his shorts, Lukas hastily kicks them off over his boots. A hand skidders down the small of Lukas’ back, fingers slipping through the sheen of sweat pooled there before dipping beneath the tight waistband of Lukas’ black under armour. Miroslav’s fingertips tickle the backs of his knees as he rips away the tight fabric. Drawing out the other fingers from Lukas’ mouth, replacing them with tongue, the hand quickly follows the same path as its mate. Slicked with sweat and spit, Miroslav slides a long, tapered finger inside the younger man. A tiny sob escapes Lukas’ mouth as he pushes back against Miroslav’s hand, needing more. Miroslav grins into the kiss, drawing Lukas’ full lower lip between his teeth. Warm blood rises to the surface of the yielding flesh as it begins to swell under the coarse attention. He presses another finger inside the tight heat. Lukas knows he’s done this before when Miroslav deftly scissors his fingers, roughly stretching him.
Miroslav can’t make up his mind if he wants to fuck him through the wall or gently bring them both to ecstasy and it’s driving Lukas mad.
He is already hard, uncomfortably confined in his shorts when Lukas shifts to sharply nudge a naked leg between Miroslav’s. He bucks against Lukas, clothed cock rubbing along the length of the younger man’s thigh. Hooking his fingers into the waistband of Miroslav’s shorts, Lukas drags them off his thin hips until they fall away to pool around his ankles. The German hastily adds another finger before Lukas has adjusted to the last one. It tears a grunt from the younger man’s throat just before the tight pressure is removed entirely.
Suddenly, Miroslav hoists him up, fingers digging into the flesh of Lukas’ ass, his back crashing against the wall as their hips align. The force knocks the air from Lukas’ lungs. Lukas wraps an arm around Miroslav’s neck, gasping for air with his hand threaded through the sweaty strands of dark hair at the crown of his head. Without warning, Miroslav seizes Lukas’ hips with bruising force and, in a single motion, buries himself completely inside the younger man.
It takes a moment for Lukas to breath again, unclenching his teeth as he tries to quickly relax around Miroslav.
“We could have been so great.” Lukas growls in Miroslav’s ear, breath hitching in his throat as the older man pulls out and slams into him again. Long fingers press into the contours of hipbones while shoulder blades scrape against cinderblock with each sharp thrust. The combination of the match and the long suppressed Miroslav, his body will soon be a battlefield of welts and scratches. “You and I.” Miroslav takes a handful of the short hairs at the crown of Lukas’ head, yanking it back to expose the flushed column of his throat. He nips along the thrumming pulse, tracing its path to the hollow between Lukas’ clavicles. “The best.” The skin is hot and bright red, vibrating beneath his lips as Lukas low tone rumbles through his vocal cords. His skin tastes like sweat with an undercurrent of fresh soap. Along the ridge of his shoulder blade the skin is wearing thin, continually rubbing against the coarse wall as Miroslav fucks him. A red stain begins to blossom just below the black ‘S’ screened onto the German kit. “Like a dream.” Between them, Miroslav can feel Lukas’ cock harden once again. His hips keep pumping and Lukas whines, eyes screwing shut, hands now skidding along the damp material of his own kit stretched across Miroslav’s chest. His blunt fingernails catch on the emblem over the older man’s heart. He swallows several times in quick succession, breathing shallow.
“Open your eyes, Lukasz.” It’s a clear command, softened as a whisper humming in his ear. Miroslav’s breathing is ragged. The brutal pace slows, quick, shallow thrust melt into deep, penetrating pushes inside. Miroslav pulls back to watch the flutter of Lukas eyelids, revealing clear blue irises. Pushed in to the hilt, he pauses.
“Mirek,” the nickname slips from the man’s lips so easily it sends a torrent of shivers down Miroslav’s spine. It sounds familiar. As if the boy has been saying it to him every day of his life.
Everything is so tight and warm around him, his entire body, already pushed to the brink after ninety full minutes of play, burns well past exhaustion. Miroslav’s head is starting to spin with Lukas as his only focal point. The thick, corded muscles of his thighs quiver as he supports the entire weight of the Polish striker. He reaches between them, wrapping a firm hand around Lukas. A tremor runs through the length of the younger man’s body as he bites back a keening moan, struggling to keep his eyes open. Miroslav flicks his thumb over the slick head of Lukas’ cock before twisting his wrist, drawing out a shuddering, “Mirek,” from deep within.
“I know.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore, but it sounds right, sounds good in his ears and likes the weight of it on his tongue. Hitching Lukas’ right knee higher, Miroslav cants his hips. He pushes impossibly deeper, finding that spot within the taut body and nudging it. Lukas practically slams his head against the cinderblock with an unchecked moan pouring from his swollen mouth. His short nails leave four ragged red scratches along the length of Miroslav’s biceps. “I know.” Chest heaving, he lets go of Miroslav’s arms, twining his hand at the base of his counterpart’s skull.
“The perfect pair, Mirek.” He pants breathlessly, tipping his head forward until their foreheads collide.
They are so close, he nudges Miroslav’s nose with his own as they breathe in the same muggy air filling the small distance between their open lips. Miroslav bucks up into him, striking the same spot over and over as his wrist snaps in tandem with his hips. It’s too much for Lukas. Eyes screwed shut, tearing at the flesh at the nape of Miroslav’s neck, he comes. Boneless, Lukas folds in on himself, slumped against Miroslav as the older man continues to thrust into the pliant body. He shoulders Lukas’ head back to look at his lopsided grin and hooded eyes.
“The perfect Polish pair.” Miroslav silences him with an unusually gentle kiss, the pad of his thumb rubbing along a flushed cheek. A final push inside and Lukas swallows Miroslav’s moans with tongue and lips.
They stay like that for several minutes. Pressed too close, too hot. The sweaty expanse of skin sticks together from hip to shoulder. Their breathing begins to slow back to a natural rhythm. Miroslav eases out of Lukas, allowing him to slowly slide down the length of his body until he is standing on his own. For a moment, Miroslav thinks Lukas is going to kiss him again. But that time has passed and he steps away. Without Miroslav’s assistance his knees feel like they are made of jelly. He slumps back against the wall looking around for the shorts he blindly kicked off several minutes before. Silently, they redress, glancing at one another unsure what comes next. Together, they begin walking back down the corridor toward the locker rooms.
“You look good in that,” Lukas says casually, tugging at the corner of his old kit as Miroslav tucks the hem into his shorts. The older man licks his thumb, trying to rub out the fresh stains spattered up the front of the red fabric.
“So do you,” Miroslav counters with an oddly cheeky smile that lights up his face. Lukas is not expecting the quip and pauses. He understands. The hallway is soon filled with a vibrant laugh as he teasingly pushes Miroslav in to the far wall. It’s easily answered by Miroslav. Lukas thinks is the first time he has ever heard the German footballer laugh. “Don’t forget your shin guards, kid,” he whispers in Lukas ear with a wide grin, pulling him close as he slings an arm around his shoulders.
++++++++++++++++++++++
Part Three: Lukas Podolski's football career was ended when he was only 19, resulting in a dramatic change. (aka: shameless Lukas!Hooker fic.)
Pairing: Miroslav Klose/Lukas Podolski
Summary: Part Two: Euro Cup 2008. Lukas Podolski, star Polish striker, squares off against Miroslav Klose, veteran German striker, in the first group match of the Euro Cup 2008.
Rating: Part Two: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't know them.
AN: Hope you enjoy. These get stranger and stranger as the list goes on...
Five Times Miroslav and Lukas Never Met
Part Two: Euro Cup 2008
Poland vs. Germany
Part Two: Euro Cup 2008
Poland vs. Germany
They can’t help but think of it as a rematch.
Finally, a chance for Poland to redeem herself—revenge only two years later, for all of Europe to watch.
Poland and Germany wait restlessly. Standing side by side in the tunnel, they are surrounded by overexcited children with sweaty palms who fiddle with elastic waistbands, anxious trainers murmuring under their breath and silent coaches sizing one another up. Every man is going through their pre-game ritual, a cacophony of idiosyncrasy, some visualizing plays, others with prayers forming on their lips, while the rest chat with one another to calm their nerves. The referees silently begin leading them to the pitch. The dull clacking sound of boots on cement echoes just above the humming florescent lights. It’s begun. They shuffle down the corridor shoulder-to-shoulder, almost brushing against one another with every odd step.
“Eleven.”
Lukas Podolski is to his right, clad in his bright red kit, knocking into his shoulder with every other step. They slowly climb the steps, jostling a bit to make sure they keep a short distance from the player in front. Miroslav tries to ignore the younger man by concentrating on every detail of the back of Per’s head, his eyes methodically tracing the German’s hairline. He can feel Lukas’ breath against the side of his face, the scent of soap and testosterone filling his nose as they pause on the stairs.
“You sell your motherland out for what?” Lukas asks in Polish and he is suddenly inescapable. Two Polish players ahead of them glance back, but Miroslav knows all of them are listening carefully, waiting to hear his answer. The Germans are oblivious, deep inside their own heads. Miroslav turns to Lukas with his typical impassive expression set, deep-set dead eyes and a razor thin mouth. The striker’s blue eyes light up as he teases the older man, eager to elicit a response. “To wear gold and black?” He tugs at the sleeve of the German kit, pulling it away before brushing his fingers over the horizontal bars of colour. Three fingertips pause to rest against the gold, red and black spanning the width of the German national’s chest. Miroslav contains his reaction, holding the younger man’s gaze.
Just beneath the surface of glee, Miroslav easily spots the depths of rage bubbling over. The boy’s face is already flush with it, throat tinted pink beneath the collar of his Polish kit—a uniform he, himself could easily be wearing right along side Podolski. It’s then that he realizes this is something more than just a match in a long quest to the finals, it’s something far beyond a rematch against his birth country; in Lukas’ eyes this is personal revenge upon a man who turned his back against Poland. A man who, as Lukas would believe, owes his life and his service to that same nation—just like Lukas himself. The younger man leans in close, hand still pressed against Miroslav’s chest.
“You leave to get your fill of bratwurst?” Lukas crudely pantomimes with his hand and mouth, tongue pressing against his cheek before he licks his lips. A few of the other Polish players standing around Lukas snicker.
“Ignore him, Miro.” Bastian brings him back, speaking in German as he places a heavy hand on Miroslav’s shoulder. The peroxide blond throws a look at Lukas as he squeezes his teammate’s arm. “He’s just bitter about ’06.” The German players resume walking as Ballack leads them out on to the pitch.
“Yes, Klose, obey the German,” Lukas sneers; calling to him in German so the entire squad understands him clearly. Miroslav glances back down the line at his counterpart. “He knows best.” The Pole gives Bastian a small salute when the German nudges a distracted Miroslav in the shoulder, his eyes still fixed on his fellow striker.
“Podolski.” From the front of the line up, the Polish captain warns the man with a stern tone cutting through the noise filling the tunnel. It effectively silences him as they follow the Germans, stepping out onto the grass.
On the pitch Miroslav does not sing the German national anthem.
The first forty-five minutes go by in the blink of an eye. The two sides appear to be evenly matched, possession is split and both look as if they will go into halftime without any successful attempts on goal. Midfield is working hard to create opportunities for both teams but defence is on their game, nixing each pass that angles anywhere near Klose and Podolski. Thirty-eight minutes in and that all changes. Miroslav finds the back of the net with a spectacular header off a corner kick. He feels the hot gaze of Podolski burning into his back as he embraces Philipp and Bastian while Michael runs up to pounce on the group. None of them notice the wide smile fails to reach his eyes. Minutes later, at the opposite end of the pitch, a shot from Podolski goes wide and the whistle blows for halftime.
“Traitor,” Lukas spits at Miroslav’s feet as he sulks past. He briefly makes eye contact with Miroslav as he passes him before jogging off to join a group of Polish players. The look sends an electric chill running along his spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. A seed of ire begins blossoming in the pit of his stomach, surging up like quicksilver into his heart. Lukas is winning despite the one nothing lead they have over Poland; he’s dragging Miroslav down to his level, ripping him apart at the seams until he is a distorted reflection of Podolski’s own hate. Miroslav slowly counts to thirty before following the rest of his teammates to the locker room.
Immediately, the second half appears to be a wholly different game. Poland has found a spark of life that was missing before, with Lukas leading the charge. Not even five minutes in and he equalizes. His iron left foot blasts the ball past Lehmann, rocketing into the right corner of the goal. Lukas takes off like a shot, thumping the emblem on his chest and sliding through the grass before jumping up into the arms of a teammate. Miroslav shifts his weight from one foot to the other, twisting his boot into the grass and tearing up clumps of earth.
Both teams maintain the same intensity but fail to capitalize further, though several brilliant attempts are made on goal by both sides. The match nearly ends in a tie—one a piece for the two Polish-born strikers. Up until the last three minutes, it appears that the teams will have to settle for a single point entering into their next group match. At the eighty-seven minute mark, Bastian makes a beautiful pass and Miroslav is perfectly in position to send it soaring to the back of the net. Under a web of sweaty arms, Miroslav hears the sound of Lukas cursing a streak in Polish. In the final minutes of the match, Podolski is boxed out at every turn, unable to tie and salvage a single point for his home country. With two goals from a Polish-born German national, Poland looses their opening match of the European Cup.
After the final whistles are blown Lukas plays nice—no fight, no fines, no shame—a tight handshake and a stiff exchange of kits. Miroslav understand immediately what’s expected when the younger striker approaches him, tugging hesitantly at the collar of his white kit as Lukas quickly strips his own off. The cameramen circle them at centerfield as they silently pull one another’s shirts on over their heads, red replaced with white and vice versa so that seemingly nothing has changed—if only for the crests stitched into the sweaty material. Lukas runs a hand down the front of the German kit; Miroslav is leaner and it fits almost like a second skin. With a brief nod toward Podolski, Miroslav joins Arne and the two follow the rest of the team off the pitch.
Lukas lags behind, waiting until they are halfway down the tunnel, well beyond the reach of cameras and press, before he unleashes his frustration in earnest.
“Why?” A pair of shin guards smacks Miroslav between the shoulder blades. The muscles in Miroslav’s jaw jump as he clenches his teeth. He stops abruptly, turning around as other players continue past them to the locker rooms. In the harsh florescent light he can see the deep flush of Lukas Podolski’s face as the man closes the distance between them with three quick strides. “Huh, Klose, tell me.” Calmly, Miroslav grabs Lukas by the elbow, his knuckles turning white as he drags the younger man down the adjacent corridor, completely out of sight. He hears the sound of Ballack’s voice behind him warning Bastian to let the two of them have it out once and for all.
“Listen.” Miroslav begins in German, forcing Lukas to pay attention to his every word in order to understand exactly what he is saying. The older man struggles to keep an even tone in his voice as he pins Lukas against the wall, restraining him with one firm hand in the centre of his chest. “Poland never cared.” A crease appears between Lukas’ brows but Miroslav is sure he has understood. “They wanted you, not me.” He jabs Lukas with free hand, hard enough that there will be a small bruise in the middle of his sternum tomorrow morning.
Miroslav is quickly working himself up into a frenzy, descending to Lukas’ chaotic level of emotion. He’s never allowed anything like this, especially this, to issue forth directly from his very core.
It feels cathartic.
“Not until it was too late,” Miroslav tries to contain the thick twist of pain underpinning the explanation but he is sure even Lukas in his current state is attune enough to hear it bleeding through. “Germany took my parents in, as they did yours, Lukas.” He grabs the German crest that rests above Lukas’ wildly beating heart and presses the emblem hard against the younger man’s chest. Lukas grits his teeth, baring them in a grimace. He gets the message. Ungrateful boy. “They gave them everything they needed to start over, to give us a proper home.” Miroslav’s voice reaches a fevered pitch just before he cuts himself off with a deep breath. As quickly as it came, the catharsis is replaced by thick globules of guilt sliding down this throat. His hand suddenly drops from Lukas’ chest. He backs away, staring at the brightly coloured boots of his counterpart. “Germany is my home now.” Miroslav looks up at Lukas through his brows with an unreadable expression. “But I belong to neither.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Lukas lunches himself forward, nose-to-nose, and starts alternately shoving Miroslav’s shoulders, smacking right then left with wide open palms against damp fabric. He’s still trying to provoke the man but Miroslav has seemingly found his centre once more. Desperate, he begins to yell, “It’s bullshit.” He cuffs Miroslav on the side of the head.
“Podolski,” Miroslav warns as he flinches away from the striker’s hand.
“Poland is our home.” Lukas grabs Miroslav’s face between his hands, forcing him to look into his eyes. It’s that same blue, vivid with wrath and disappointment—it makes Miroslav’s stomach churn. Fingertips dig into the flesh of Miroslav’s cheeks, pulling at the corners of his thin mouth and wide eyes. Their foreheads knock together as Lukas hauls him closer.
“Stop.” Miroslav tries to twist away, bitten nails burrowing into the soft underside of Lukas’ wrists.
“It’s our home.” His voice cracks.
It's no longer about Poland.
“Stop, Lukasz.” Miroslav finally switches to Polish, successfully wrenching Lukas’ hands away from his face, crossing them at the wrist before forcing them against the man’s stomach. He walks Lukas back till he’s flat to the wall. There is brief silence as Miroslav stares at his counterpart, searching his face.
Lukas surges forward and their teeth click together as he envelopes Miroslav’s mouth in something too brutal to be called a kiss.
He jerks his head away, slamming Lukas against the cinderblock wall once more. Miroslav’s brows knit together, eyes flitting back and forth over Lukas’ face. The boy is completely open and unguarded. He was once this boy, but overlooked, with a different jaded ending. A flush high on Lukas’ cheeks makes him look years younger, so completely naïve and alone. He’s been betrayed, abandoned and he blames Miroslav for not following him home. Blames the German striker for destroying something illusive, indefinable—something that never was, never could be.
Lukas feels Miroslav’s hot breath coming in short puffs against his face and he knows the man is going to break his nose with a slick blow.
The kiss still feels like a punch.
Lukas barely suppresses the whimper of surprise. It mutates into an awkward chirp buzzing from his mouth into Miroslav’s. Long fingers rake along the length of Lukas’ face, thumb curling under his chin to drag him closer. Lips tight against each other, Miroslav tilts his head and Lukas’ lips fall open easily. He runs his tongue along the slick surface of the younger man’s teeth, greedily devouring his counterpart’s supple mouth. Lukas winds his hands into the front of the Polish kit Miroslav is now wearing—Podolski emblazoned in wide white letters hanging from Miroslav’s thin shoulders. Eagerly, he push-pulls at the fabric, till his nails finally scrape against naked hipbones. He clings to the lean muscles, thumbs rubbing along the defined crease where thigh meets hip. Arching against the man’s wiry body, he starts to feel waves of heat crash through his body. It cuts through the fatigue of his muscles, reigniting the output of epinephrine until it surges through his entire nervous system en masse.
Miroslav has already been completely undone by Lukas; pressing frantic opened mouth kisses along the man’s smooth cheek and throat. A rough groan escapes him as his hand slides against Lukas’ pouting lips, the tips of his fingers push past the soft flesh. He probes inside the depths of the wide searing, wet mouth. Lukas’ cheeks hollow as he sucks the pale fingers all the way down to the knuckle, teeth scraping against flesh while tongue curls between them.
Fumbling anxiously with the drawstring of his shorts, Lukas hastily kicks them off over his boots. A hand skidders down the small of Lukas’ back, fingers slipping through the sheen of sweat pooled there before dipping beneath the tight waistband of Lukas’ black under armour. Miroslav’s fingertips tickle the backs of his knees as he rips away the tight fabric. Drawing out the other fingers from Lukas’ mouth, replacing them with tongue, the hand quickly follows the same path as its mate. Slicked with sweat and spit, Miroslav slides a long, tapered finger inside the younger man. A tiny sob escapes Lukas’ mouth as he pushes back against Miroslav’s hand, needing more. Miroslav grins into the kiss, drawing Lukas’ full lower lip between his teeth. Warm blood rises to the surface of the yielding flesh as it begins to swell under the coarse attention. He presses another finger inside the tight heat. Lukas knows he’s done this before when Miroslav deftly scissors his fingers, roughly stretching him.
Miroslav can’t make up his mind if he wants to fuck him through the wall or gently bring them both to ecstasy and it’s driving Lukas mad.
He is already hard, uncomfortably confined in his shorts when Lukas shifts to sharply nudge a naked leg between Miroslav’s. He bucks against Lukas, clothed cock rubbing along the length of the younger man’s thigh. Hooking his fingers into the waistband of Miroslav’s shorts, Lukas drags them off his thin hips until they fall away to pool around his ankles. The German hastily adds another finger before Lukas has adjusted to the last one. It tears a grunt from the younger man’s throat just before the tight pressure is removed entirely.
Suddenly, Miroslav hoists him up, fingers digging into the flesh of Lukas’ ass, his back crashing against the wall as their hips align. The force knocks the air from Lukas’ lungs. Lukas wraps an arm around Miroslav’s neck, gasping for air with his hand threaded through the sweaty strands of dark hair at the crown of his head. Without warning, Miroslav seizes Lukas’ hips with bruising force and, in a single motion, buries himself completely inside the younger man.
It takes a moment for Lukas to breath again, unclenching his teeth as he tries to quickly relax around Miroslav.
“We could have been so great.” Lukas growls in Miroslav’s ear, breath hitching in his throat as the older man pulls out and slams into him again. Long fingers press into the contours of hipbones while shoulder blades scrape against cinderblock with each sharp thrust. The combination of the match and the long suppressed Miroslav, his body will soon be a battlefield of welts and scratches. “You and I.” Miroslav takes a handful of the short hairs at the crown of Lukas’ head, yanking it back to expose the flushed column of his throat. He nips along the thrumming pulse, tracing its path to the hollow between Lukas’ clavicles. “The best.” The skin is hot and bright red, vibrating beneath his lips as Lukas low tone rumbles through his vocal cords. His skin tastes like sweat with an undercurrent of fresh soap. Along the ridge of his shoulder blade the skin is wearing thin, continually rubbing against the coarse wall as Miroslav fucks him. A red stain begins to blossom just below the black ‘S’ screened onto the German kit. “Like a dream.” Between them, Miroslav can feel Lukas’ cock harden once again. His hips keep pumping and Lukas whines, eyes screwing shut, hands now skidding along the damp material of his own kit stretched across Miroslav’s chest. His blunt fingernails catch on the emblem over the older man’s heart. He swallows several times in quick succession, breathing shallow.
“Open your eyes, Lukasz.” It’s a clear command, softened as a whisper humming in his ear. Miroslav’s breathing is ragged. The brutal pace slows, quick, shallow thrust melt into deep, penetrating pushes inside. Miroslav pulls back to watch the flutter of Lukas eyelids, revealing clear blue irises. Pushed in to the hilt, he pauses.
“Mirek,” the nickname slips from the man’s lips so easily it sends a torrent of shivers down Miroslav’s spine. It sounds familiar. As if the boy has been saying it to him every day of his life.
Everything is so tight and warm around him, his entire body, already pushed to the brink after ninety full minutes of play, burns well past exhaustion. Miroslav’s head is starting to spin with Lukas as his only focal point. The thick, corded muscles of his thighs quiver as he supports the entire weight of the Polish striker. He reaches between them, wrapping a firm hand around Lukas. A tremor runs through the length of the younger man’s body as he bites back a keening moan, struggling to keep his eyes open. Miroslav flicks his thumb over the slick head of Lukas’ cock before twisting his wrist, drawing out a shuddering, “Mirek,” from deep within.
“I know.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore, but it sounds right, sounds good in his ears and likes the weight of it on his tongue. Hitching Lukas’ right knee higher, Miroslav cants his hips. He pushes impossibly deeper, finding that spot within the taut body and nudging it. Lukas practically slams his head against the cinderblock with an unchecked moan pouring from his swollen mouth. His short nails leave four ragged red scratches along the length of Miroslav’s biceps. “I know.” Chest heaving, he lets go of Miroslav’s arms, twining his hand at the base of his counterpart’s skull.
“The perfect pair, Mirek.” He pants breathlessly, tipping his head forward until their foreheads collide.
They are so close, he nudges Miroslav’s nose with his own as they breathe in the same muggy air filling the small distance between their open lips. Miroslav bucks up into him, striking the same spot over and over as his wrist snaps in tandem with his hips. It’s too much for Lukas. Eyes screwed shut, tearing at the flesh at the nape of Miroslav’s neck, he comes. Boneless, Lukas folds in on himself, slumped against Miroslav as the older man continues to thrust into the pliant body. He shoulders Lukas’ head back to look at his lopsided grin and hooded eyes.
“The perfect Polish pair.” Miroslav silences him with an unusually gentle kiss, the pad of his thumb rubbing along a flushed cheek. A final push inside and Lukas swallows Miroslav’s moans with tongue and lips.
They stay like that for several minutes. Pressed too close, too hot. The sweaty expanse of skin sticks together from hip to shoulder. Their breathing begins to slow back to a natural rhythm. Miroslav eases out of Lukas, allowing him to slowly slide down the length of his body until he is standing on his own. For a moment, Miroslav thinks Lukas is going to kiss him again. But that time has passed and he steps away. Without Miroslav’s assistance his knees feel like they are made of jelly. He slumps back against the wall looking around for the shorts he blindly kicked off several minutes before. Silently, they redress, glancing at one another unsure what comes next. Together, they begin walking back down the corridor toward the locker rooms.
“You look good in that,” Lukas says casually, tugging at the corner of his old kit as Miroslav tucks the hem into his shorts. The older man licks his thumb, trying to rub out the fresh stains spattered up the front of the red fabric.
“So do you,” Miroslav counters with an oddly cheeky smile that lights up his face. Lukas is not expecting the quip and pauses. He understands. The hallway is soon filled with a vibrant laugh as he teasingly pushes Miroslav in to the far wall. It’s easily answered by Miroslav. Lukas thinks is the first time he has ever heard the German footballer laugh. “Don’t forget your shin guards, kid,” he whispers in Lukas ear with a wide grin, pulling him close as he slings an arm around his shoulders.
++++++++++++++++++++++
Part Three: Lukas Podolski's football career was ended when he was only 19, resulting in a dramatic change. (aka: shameless Lukas!Hooker fic.)
